


Amongst All Creatures Wild and Tamed

by dharmaavocado



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, M/M, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 05:25:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9705269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dharmaavocado/pseuds/dharmaavocado
Summary: The story changed, the way Goodnight told it, depending on the mood, the person asking, or if he sussed out that Billy was in the need of some entertainment.  Sometimes it was five men, sometimes a dozen, and on one memorable occasion it was almost twenty, and in Goodnight’s words he was something dangerous and unknowable.  A reckoning, Goodnight had said.Billy and Goodnight through the years.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Mountain Goats song _How to Embrace a Swamp Creature_ , answering the question of how many fics can I name after Mountain Goats songs with all of them.
> 
> Trying my hand at non-linear story telling. The timeline jumps around.

The story changed, the way Goodnight told it, depending on the mood, the person asking, or if he sussed out that Billy was in the need of some entertainment. Sometimes it was five men, sometimes a dozen, and on one memorable occasion it was almost twenty, and in Goodnight’s words he was something dangerous and unknowable. A reckoning, Goodnight had said, gold tooth glinting as he grinned at the man who had been casting disparaging looks at Billy all night.

It was not an uncommon occurrence, and Billy had long since learned to ignore it, easier now in Goodnight’s company, but something about this one had Goodnight’s back up. “You should have seen him,” Goodnight continued. “Twenty, and not a one ever breathed right again.”

“It was five,” Billy said once they were safe behind locked doors, flush enough from the last town they could afford a room of their own instead of bunking down in the communal space. “And two got up.”

“And the surprise on your face is a sight I will not soon forget,” Goodnight said, belt and gun set aside, shirt folded precise and crisp, old genteel habits Goodnight never managed to shake.

Billy set his knives next to Goodnight’s belt and gun, stripping down quick and efficient to Goodnight’s customary sigh as he gathered up Billy’s discarded clothes to fold and set atop his own.

“You didn’t like him,” said Billy, and Goodnight’s hands stilled.

“I am disinclined to like most people I’ve just met,” said Goodnight.

That was a lie. Goodnight liked people, if in a distant and calculating manner, weighing up their potential usefulness. It was Billy who at best was wary, history proving that it was only a matter of time before a white man’s nature revealed its underbelly.

“Being affable isn’t the same as taking a liking to them,” Goodnight added.

“Goody,” said Billy, and caught Goodnight’s chin, waiting patiently until Goodnight gave in and met his gaze.

“I did not appreciate the way he was looking at you,” Goodnight said.

The man wasn’t looking at him differently than a thousand other white men had in the past, but Goodnight always did like to take offense on Billy’s behalf when he could no longer be bothered do so. Unlike Goodnight, he had at least learned how they both would starve if he didn’t learn to walk away from the glares and the mutters.

“I’ve had worse,” said Billy, and Goodnight looked to the scar along his ribs.

“It was disrespectful,” Goodnight insisted, and Billy relaxed. Goodnight had notions about respect, which came down to that Billy deserved it and Goodnight did not.

“And so you lied,” he said, tightening his grip on Goodnight’s chin.

“Exaggerated at the most,” Goodnight corrected, amusement seeping through again. “You must admit he saw you differently when I was done.”

He saw me as a threat, Billy did not say, because in truth he liked that, the way men who reverently whispered Goodnight’s name would turn to Billy as if he was a wild, dangerous thing.

Goodnight looked at him like that, but where others saw violence Goodnight’s eyes only went wide with wonder.

“Next time,” said Billy, and all he had to do was nudge Goodnight’s chin to get him to lean in, “at least make it a believable number.”

“I did,” Goodnight said. “I do believe you could take on an army and come out on top.”

In the way of most of their talks, Billy kissed Goodnight silent.

 

* * *

 

Those first months together, when their edges hadn’t yet been smoothed to fit, they spent mostly around Texas, sometimes wandering the edges of New Mexico, heading north towards the Dakota territory for summer, and although Goodnight’s gaze kept tracking towards Louisiana, they kept well away from that part of the Mississippi. Even then, before he learned the knack of peeling Goodnight open, he understood Goodnight’s urge to return to a home that he had long since burned in his wake.

They found a rhythm to traveling together, one that he was only mildly horrified to find himself sinking into. His first look of America had been the crowded port, the crush of bodies tight and relentless as they were herded from ship to train, and from there it only grew worse. Sometimes, if he wasn’t careful, he still felt that panic clawing his throat open.

But out here there was open space for miles, and Billy wondered if it was possible to drown in such vastness. During one stretch, as they took the long way from one town to the next, he felt the weight of Goodnight’s thoughtful gaze as he tipped his head towards the arc of unbroken sky.

“Quite a view, isn’t it?” said Goodnight, adding when Billy snapped his head down, “Just an observation. No need to get your hackles up.”

It was disconcerting the way Goodnight read him. He wasn’t used to that, a white man looking at him with care.

“Some people do not take to all this space,” said Goodnight, bringing his mare a bit closer. “They feel the need to fill it, and give too much of themselves to do so. They empty themselves.”

Billy kept his silence, inclined to dismiss the sentiment as nothing more than Goodnight spinning words for his own amusement. But Goodnight’s face had gone soft and wistful, and he was looking beyond Billy, out to the horizon and then further still.

“I like it,” Billy finally said. “The space.”

“Do you?” said Goodnight, attention tracking back to him.

He lifted one shoulder. “The trick is not to empty yourself. You expand to fill. You become bigger.”

“Why, Mr. Rocks,” said Goodnight with a grin, although his gaze remained solemn and thoughtful, “you have been hiding the soul of a philosopher from me.”

“I have been hiding nothing. You just haven’t been listening.”

And Goodnight said, as serious as Billy had ever heard him, “On my word, Billy, I listen to everything you say.”

That was the trouble with Goodnight, of course. He always did listen, even when Billy wished he wouldn’t.

 

* * *

 

Billy only knew Sam Chisolm through Goodnight’s words, for once spare and sparse. “He saved my life,” was all Goodnight said on the matter, and Billy respected that. He and Goodnight had been riding together for years, but there was always one or two things a man kept folded close. He and Goodnight shouldered each other’s weight regardless of what remained unspoken.

Goodnight and Chisolm exchanged letters, infrequent and far between given neither one remained in one place for long, and once a year Goodnight used their winnings to send a telegraph, always in the same month, sorrow etched into the corners of his eyes.

“Loss is a hard thing to bear,” Goodnight explained when they bunked down in a ramshackle hotel.

“Yours or his?” Billy asked.

“Both,” said Goodnight. “It’s a terrible thing to hold on your own, grief is, and I did my best, but that man is a stubborn bastard determined to do it anyway.”

Billy raised his eyebrows, and Goodnight chuckled even as he folded to sit on the edge of the bed. “Now don’t you start with that.”

Billy nudged Goodnight’s knees until he made space for Billy to step close. “We have enough money. We can go find him.”

Goodnight tipped his head back, and Billy gave in the urge to touch to touch the lines next to Goodnight’s eyes, a tenderness he would deny feeling unfolding in his chest.

“You have a kind and giving heart,” Goodnight said, turning to press a kiss to Billy’s palm, “but Sam won’t want company for this.”

It wasn’t until he had finally met the man himself that Billy understood what Goodnight meant. Sam Chisolm’s grief ran deep and quiet, the kind that changed a person and let all manner of things creep in. But for all that he was the man that saved Goodnight long before Billy ever met him, and for that Chisolm had earned his gratitude.

“Well,” said Chisolm as Goodnight introduced them with, if Billy didn’t know better, a hint of nervousness. “For once Goodnight was not exaggerating. His words are well deserved.”

“I rarely exaggerate,” said Goodnight, looking suspiciously red about the cheeks. “That is a hurtful assertion against my person.”

“Has he recited poetry to you yet?” asked Sam, and yes, that was definitely Goodnight blushing. “He has quite the extensive collection.”

“He has,” said Billy. “Shakespeare, mostly.”

“Sonnets?”

“Yes.”

“We went drinking one night,” Chisolm said. “I believe I heard every sonnet and a good bit of Whitman before he finally passed out.”

“It’s wasted on you both,” said Goodnight with great dignity that was undercut by the way he wouldn’t met either of their eyes. “Neither of you have poetry in your soul.”

“Isn’t that why I have you, Goody?” said Billy, daring, and was rewarded with Chisolm’s laughter.

Later, laying out his and Goodnight’s bedrolls, keeping an eye on their travel companions, he heard Chisolm ask, “You all right, Goody?”

“I'm as well as can be expected,” Goodnight answered. “Billy keeps me on the level.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Chisolm, and Billy breathed out the tension he carried in his shoulders since they first rode out to meet the man.

“You sure about this?” Goodnight asked him when the fire was banked low and the others slept.

“He’s a good man,” Billy said, which was answer enough for them both. “And you?”

Shadows cresting in the hollows of his face, Goodnight said, “I go wherever you go.”

 

* * *

 

Not long into their acquaintance, somewhere outside of Kemper, Goodnight turned to him and said, “Not that I do not appreciate the sheer audacity of it, but Billy Rocks is damn near the most ridiculous alias I have ever heard in my life.”

“Is it now, Goodnight?” Billy said.

Goodnight grinned, delighted, like he always did whenever Billy deigned to verbally spar with him. It was not, Billy was surprised to learn that first time, because Goodnight managed to goad him into snapping back. If Billy had to classify it, which he was loathe to do, he would say it was akin to sheer joy at tossing words back and forth, like Billy was giving Goodnight a gift.

“Fair point, fair point,” Goodnight conceded. “But I will have you know I come by this nom de plume legitimately, being named after my esteemed grandfather on my mother’s side.”

Goodnight talked about his home, or more accurately, he talked around it, preferring to describe in great detail the bayou, which Billy had never seen, and the food, which Billy had sampled on occasion, and the weight of the air in summer, which sounded downright unpleasant. But for all the words Goodnight banded about, he spent none on his family until Billy was of half a mind Goodnight appeared full grown in the world with a dictionary scratched into his head.

“Were you close?” Billy asked casually, as if Goodnight’s answer made no difference to him.

“No. He was an ornery bastard, and mean when drunk, which was more often than not.” Goodnight adjusted the angle of his hat. “Finally did the honorable thing and drank himself to death, which we would have appreciated more if it happened twenty years beforehand, but like I said, he was ornery. The name was the most interesting thing about him.”

“And now it’s the least interesting thing about you,” said Billy.

“Aren’t you full of flattery today,” said Goodnight, but Billy could tell he was pleased. “I don’t suppose your previous name has any significance?”

“Not particularly,” said Billy, adding because Goodnight had confided in him and he wanted them on equal footing, “My sisters, they were named after a grandmother, an aunt, but my mother picked mine because she liked the sound of it when she was shouting after me.”

“You were an unruly child?”

He lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “Headstrong, I think is the word you would use.”

“What a surprise,” said Goodnight dryly. “Why choose Billy Rocks, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“There are a few ways to survive a white man’s prejudice,” said Billy. “One of them is to make yourself small and dumb so they look through you. The other is to make it so they cannot ignore you. They only see what you wish them to, and by the time they think to look beyond that it is too late.”

“Well, ain’t that God’s honest truth,” said Goodnight. “You’re a clever man, Mr. Rocks.”

“One of us has to be, and it’s clearly not going to be you.”

Goodnight laughed, and this time Billy let Goodnight see his smile.

 

* * *

 

Goodnight was not difficult to understand, if you knew the right lens to filter him through. Billy took in how his hands shook on a rifle, the way his grin went sharp and brittle when men called him Mr. Robicheaux in low, awed tones, how his gaze would track to the horizon, wary and fearful, and he felt foolish for not understanding sooner. Where Billy had gone out into the wide expanse of the west to find room to breathe, Goodnight did so to empty himself.

And so it was almost relief the first time Goodnight’s dreams left him shaking and on the verge of screaming because this Billy understood.

“Goodnight,” he said, crouched just out of reach. Some men came up swinging, and while Billy had come to appreciate Goodnight’s company that was no reason to risk a broken nose. “Wake up.”

Perhaps it was his tone or the familiar cadence of his voice, but Goodnight’s panicked gaze came to rest on him even as shame took over. Billy passed over the flask, waiting patiently as Goodnight took a long drink.

“My sincere apologies for waking you,” said Goodnight. “This is—”

“Goody,” he said, and had the pleasure of Goodnight going quiet. “It’s all right.”

Goodnight took another drink before screwing the cap into place. “Then why are you all the way over there?”

“Some men tend to lash out when coming out of a nightmare,” he said, moving closer to take the flask back. “I do, sometimes.”

“Well,” said Goodnight. “Well.”

“Have you finally run out of words?” Billy asked, amused.

“You can’t expect a man to be at his wittiest when he’s been shocked awake,” Goodnight grumbled. He cleared his throat. “I was in the war.”

“I know. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Goodnight stared at him long and hard before saying, “Perhaps I want to.”

He could leave, Billy thought, feeling as unbalanced as if he had fumbled a knife and sliced a finger. Their partnership was profitable, but he could make it on his own, had been doing so for a long time. Goodnight Robicheaux, for all his fancy words and sweet smiles, was not essential to his survival. Very little was.

But survival meant less than nothing if there was nothing to make it worthwhile.

“Perhaps I want to listen,” he said, and settled himself next to Goodnight where there was only him and the long stretch of night to hear Goodnight’s words.

 

* * *

 

A good many years into their partnership, Billy having stopped keeping count at that point, found them in yet another boarding house that was more ramshackle than the last. “Billy,” Goodnight sighed as he pinned up his hair. “While you do make a fine sight, you cannot distract me from the matter at hand.”

‘I'm not trying to distract you,” Billy said, sliding the hairpin into place. “What’s your complaint now?”

“You know,” said Goodnight, sounding fond even through his irritation. “For a man who maintains such a striking image, you take such poor care of your clothes.”

“Isn’t that why I have you?”

“Come here.” Goodnight held up Billy’s shirt, wrinkles smoothed by Goodnight’s careful attention.

He shook it impatiently, and Billy stepped forward, slipping his arms into the sleeves, standing still and quiet as Goodnight pulled it over his shoulders, knuckles brushing his skin with each button Goodnight threaded through the hole.

“We’re not that far from Helena,” said Goodnight, attention turned to the collar, folding it over before letting his touch linger on the hollow of Billy’s throat. “We’ll find a laundry there and a decent tailor. I’m afraid your constant sartorial neglect is too much for even me to correct.”

Billy snorted, but allowed Goodnight to roll up his sleeves, right and then left. He waited patiently while Goodnight retrieved his vest, buttoning that too into place, brushing off lint and dust from his shoulders.

“You are set to rights,” said Goodnight, pleased and just on the edge of proprietary. “Shall we go win us some money, Mr. Rocks?”

“In a minute,” said Billy, and slid a hand to the back of Goodnight’s neck. Such diligence should be rewarded, and they stood there, kissing long and deep, as the light changed.

 

* * *

 

Rose Creek was dark and quiet, and Billy felt tired to his bones as Goody headed for the door.

“You’re not going to stop me?” Goodnight said, but Billy heard the plea underneath, _make me stay,_ as if he ever asked more than Goodnight could give.

“We agreed this would work only as long as this was what we both wanted,” Billy answered.

“That was about riding together,” Goodnight said, “not this suicide mission.”

It was tempting to put his hands on Goodnight, quiet him as Billy had done in the past, but here and now it would edge the line of cruel.

“I know what this will cost you,” he said instead, and Goodnight’s face twisted in something as close to hate as Billy ever saw. Despite all their years together, he never could get Goodnight to let go of all that shame and loathing.

“You’re the goddamn love of my life,” Goodnight spat, an ugly accusation, “and you’re going to die here.”

“I can’t leave them,” he snapped. No one could press at old wounds like Goodnight Robicheaux, and Billy never forgave himself for allowing Goodnight that power over him. “ _You_ know that.”

He left his home for vengeance, and he knew better than Emma Cullen the cost it carried. It was his price to pay, even now.

Goodnight set his hat on his head. “Then this is where we part ways.”

Billy closed his eyes, letting the hurt settle down under his skin. “Ride safe,” he finally said, and for one moment he thought Goodnight would bend just enough to reach out and meet Billy where he stood.

But Goodnight carried that same ornery streak as his namesake and instead turned on his heel and left quietly, leaving Billy to drink the bar dry and wait for dawn.

 

* * *

 

Their partnership was all of nine months old when Billy’s sleep slipped from restless into troubled. He had learned it was best not to fight it, but that was before he had Goodnight hovering over him, making worried noises over the shadows under his eyes and what, Goodnight insisted, was an unhealthy gauntness to his frame.

“Are you sure you’re not coming down with something?” he asked, and Billy irritably slapped Goodnight’s hand away from his forehead.

“The only thing I have is an aching back from sleeping on the ground,” he said.

“Then let us find better accommodations,” said Goodnight, and turned them east.

Perhaps if they made it to town he could have avoided it all with a soft bed and the steady breathing of Goodnight across the room. But they didn’t and he couldn’t, and when Billy came to it was to find his feet scratched and bloody and Goodnight near frantic as he cupped Billy’s face.

“Jesus,” Goodnight said, a shake to his fingers as he gently touched Billy’s cheeks, his jaw, the skin under his eye. “Billy, can you hear me? I need you to talk to me, darling. I know you have a wealth of opinions about my person. Let’s hear them, every single one.”

He blinked stupidly at the bruise already swelling on Goodnight’s cheek. “What happened?” he asked, making an aborted movement to touch that tender skin. “Where are my shoes?”

“Darling,” Goodnight repeated, “are you with me? You know I'm more than willing to learn your mother tongue, but if you would be so kind to switch to English I’d much appreciate it.”

He groped for the right words, English an unwieldy and ugly language clumsy on his tongue.

“You talk too much for us both,” he managed, swallowing thickly, unable to look away from the naked relief on Goodnight’s face. “What happened?”

“Well, I was hoping you would be able to enlighten me,” said Goodnight. “You were near screaming in your sleep before taking off into the night. I barely caught up with you.”

He looked over Goodnight’s shoulder to the faint glow of their campsite.

“This happens sometimes,” he said.

“Sleepwalking?”

“Yes.” He went to shake his head to clear it only to be brought up short by the way Goodnight was still gently cradling his jaw.

Goodnight dropped his hands, almost reluctant, and said, “You were saying things. Begging.”

“I do that,” said Billy. “How did you get that bruise?”

“You came up swinging.” Some bit of the horror he felt must have shown on his face because Goodnight added, “You warned me about this. It’s my own damn fault for not remembering. It was more of a glancing blow. I'm afraid you don’t keep your natural grace about you in this state. You able to walk back? Your feet are torn up.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, but when Goodnight offered an arm to lean on Billy was not too prideful to accept it, feet hot and painful.

After the cuts were cleaned and bandaged, Goodnight’s bruise darkening by the moment, Goodnight said, “That’s a heavy weight you’re carrying, and I would know.”

“Are you offering to shoulder it?” Billy snapped. He always felt flayed open afterwards, vulnerable, and he couldn’t decide if the look in Goodnight’s eyes was making it better or worse.

“If you’ll allow me,” Goodnight said mildly. “I would do for you what you have done for me.”

It always came down to this choice, to trust or to not, and he was so very tired.

“The Northern Pacific Railroad put that warrant out on me,” Billy said. “I killed three men.”

He had killed more since then, bounty hunters who came after him, fearful cowards who took exception to his coloring, but those three, they remained different.

By the time the sky turned gray with dawn, his throat was cracked and dry, and Goodnight passed over a canteen.

“Don’t we make a fine pair,” Goodnight said, and Billy laughed, exhausted and verging on ugly. “For what’s it worth, you did right.”

“We have a long ride ahead of us,” he said instead, done with indulging the hooks the past still had in him.

Goodnight stood and offered a hand, looking amused at Billy’s scowl even as he reached up and let Goodnight pull him to his feet.

 

* * *

 

It was in summer when the thought rose up as he passed the cigarette to Goodnight, who smiled and said, “Much obliged.”

It wasn’t anything they hadn’t done countless times over their partnership, but there was a sweetness to the turn of Goodnight’s mouth Billy couldn’t ignore, and he turned it over in his head as he watched Goodnight exhale a long plume of smoke before offering the cigarette back.

“I do hate to disturb such a tranquil moment,” Goodnight said, “but I must ask if I have offended you, my dear Mr. Rocks.”

“You haven’t been worse than usual,” he said, and was rewarded by Goodnight’s low laughter. “Why?”

“The last time I saw you turn such an intent look on a body it ended with a man losing a few fingers.” Goodnight shook his head when Billy held out the cigarette. “I am quite fond of keeping all my digits.”

“It’s nothing like that,” said Billy, and watched as Goodnight’s gaze dipped to his mouth as he took another long drag, letting the smoke drift and curl between them.

“You would tell me if it was, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Billy, and that satisfied Goodnight, who spun out one of his long and meandering tales that Billy found oddly soothing.

After that it was easy to spot, now that he knew what he was looking for, and as the miles unwound under them he kept a close eye on how often Goodnight’s gaze tracked to him. Goodnight was charming in that particular Southern way that had begun to die out with the end of the war. He wielded smiles and hard edged stares in turn, his reputation as much a weapon as the rifle his hands shook to hold, and both he laid at Billy’s feet.

“Goody,” Billy said, nodding at the map Goodnight had balanced precariously on his saddle’s pommel. “We’re near Albuquerque?”

“We could make it by tomorrow afternoon,” said Goodnight, “although I caution of plying our trade there with the railroad delivering a higher class of clientele then we should risk.”

Which meant the lawmen were not as inclined to look the other way if someone took exception to his skills.

“It would have a hotel, though,” said Billy. “A nice one.”

“I would be surprised if it didn’t,” said Goodnight. “Are you telling me that I am not keeping you in the high life you deserve?”

Money was not so tight as it had been at the beginning. They came out on top enough that Goodnight was putting a bit of their winnings in a bank, perhaps saving for the day when necessity required them to retire.

“I need a real bed,” said Billy, and while Goodnight’s eyebrows climbed he acquiesced to Billy’s wishes, as Billy knew he would.

Those men who took their hats off in Goodnight’s presence would be surprised at how easily Goodnight left most decisions to Billy. Theirs was a partnership, and while they were days they snapped and spat like feral cats, Goodnight never shied away from the fact that they continued on as they were only by Billy’s leave.

Albuquerque was, in Goodnight’s words, bustling, filled with men and women who had never been covered in the dust of work. It was a place he and Goodnight would go unremarked upon.

He rolled his shoulders, anticipation a sweet shiver down his spine.

“Go get us a room,” he said. “Three days. I’ll stable the horses.”

“If I didn’t know better I’d say you were planning something,” Goodnight said, but he slipped from the saddle and handed off the reigns, loping gait self-assured as he did as Billy said.

Stable paid, Billy took their bags to the hotel. Goodnight met him in the lobby, relieving him of the weight and leading him up to their room. They gained a few looks in passing, but nothing that meant trouble, and so Billy ignored them, watching as Goodnight unlocked the door and showed him in. It was nicer than most places they found themselves in, and Billy nodded, satisfied.

“I feel that you have been plotting behind my back,” said Goodnight. He set aside the bags as well as his belt and guns.

“Goody,” said Billy, “have a seat.”

“This seems serious,” Goodnight said, removing his hat. When he took a step towards the chair tucked in the corner, Billy shook his head. “I'm feeling a might worried,” hr added, but he took a seat on the bed.

This could go wrong, Billy thought, unbuckling his own belt and setting it carefully on the other bed. He hesitated a moment before removing his gloves. Goodnight’s gaze was trained on the bared skin of his palms, and Billy bit back a satisfied smile.

“Billy,” Goodnight said, a note of pleading to his voice as Billy stepped in close, much closer than Goodnight let anybody else get. “What’s going on?”

“Will you permit me?” Billy asked, and Goodnight frowned even as he nodded.

Billy planted a knee on other side of Goodnight’s legs, settling himself neatly into place. Goodnight inhaled, sharp and loud in the silence, as Billy threaded one hand through his hair, tugging until Goodnight tipped his head back. He touched two fingers to the exposed line of Goodnight’s throat and felt him swallow, his eyes wide and dark.

“I don’t—”

“Sh,” Billy said, tightening his grip, watching Goodnight’s mouth drop open. “You’re going to let me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Goodnight, throat working under Billy’s touch. “Whatever you want.”

Billy dipped his head and kissed him, long and slow and deep, taking his time until Goodnight shuddered and went lax against him, letting Billy take and take.

“Touch me,” Billy said, and Goodnight made a soft, hurt nose, grasping desperately at his hips, and then it was anything but slow.

After, as they lay together, Goodnight a boneless sprawl, he said, “So you needed a bed?”

“I did consider just tumbling you to our bedrolls,” Billy answered, “but I thought our backs would appreciate this more.”

“Oh, I am appreciative,” Goodnight said, pressing his mouth to Billy’s shoulder, his neck. “I am very appreciative indeed.”

 

* * *

 

It was a strange thing to be filled with relief even while facing your own death, but Goodnight came back, riding as if the devil were at his heels, and Billy felt something in him steady and settle. He always was at his best when Goodnight was looking on.

“It’s like my daddy used to say,” Goodnight said, reloading his rifle.

Billy fumbled for his own bullets, blocking out the terrible sound of the Gatling below. “What did he say, Goody?” he asked, glancing over to find Goodnight staring at him with sorrow. “What?” he prompted again, sharper.

“Well,” Goodnight said, gold tooth gleaming as he grinned, “he said a lot of things.”

Billy bent towards him as they both laughed, desperate and mourning. Goodnight’s father had a lot of sayings, and Billy heard most of them over the years, but he supposed even that man never foreseen the circumstances he and Goodnight found themselves in now.

“Goody,” he said, “I know you came back for me.”

Silence descended and Goodnight said, “They’re reloading.”

They stood and fired, covering Faraday as best they could. Billy preferred the control of knives to guns, but there was something easy about the rhythm of taking aim and pulling the trigger, catching the recoil in the shoulder, repeating over and over until nothing outside of that mattered.

Was this how Goodnight survived the war? Was this the cycle that trapped him in his nightmare? Aim, trigger, recoil.

“Jesus,” Goodnight said, dropping his rifle. “They’re pointing that goddamn thing at us.”

Goodnight’s vision always was better than his, and Billy dropped low, scrambling at the trap door.

“No time,” Goodnight said, and pulled him towards the far railing as the first bullets burst the wood among them.

He took a bullet in the shoulder as they broke through the rotting wood, stumbling to his knees and losing his grip on Goodnight.

“I got you,” Goodnight said, pulling Billy in close. “You go where I go, remember?”

And then he stepped off the edge, Billy held tight to his chest. The shock of hitting the ground squeezed the air from his chest even through the cushion of Goodnight’s body.

“Goody,” he gasped, trying to stand, but Goodnight rolled them over, curling over him as the bullets tore up the earth, the sound so deafening he couldn’t even hear his or Goodnight’s rattling breaths.

And then it was over, leaving him there breathing in dirt and ash, shoulder a hot ball of pain.

“Goody,” he said, and then, louder, “ _Goody_.”

He got a hand against Goody’s chest, managing to shove him over. Goody gasped, flecks of blood on his lips even as more of it soaked into the soil under him.

“Goody,” Billy said, gritting his teeth as he ripped his vest off, pressing it against the worst of it. “Goody, look at me. _Look at me._ ”

In the end, it was his desperate howling that brought Vasquez running. They had to drag him away from Goodnight even as he fought desperately until Chisolm said, “He’s alive, Billy. We got him. He’s alive.”

And then he let the exhaustion and the pain take him.

 

* * *

 

It was Goodnight who told the story of how they met, filled with exaggerations or not, because in truth Billy remembered very little beyond the five men surrounding him and the anger putting its roots deep down and flourishing. It was easier to be angry than to acknowledge how alone he was.

When it was over, his knuckles scrapped and stinging as he licked blood from his lip, he turned to see Goodnight staring at him, glass of whiskey forgotten in his hand. Goodnight’s eyes were wide, his face soft with something like wonder, and he said, “Friend, I would be much obliged if you would let me buy you a drink.”

If Billy were inclined to tell any story of him and Goodnight, which he was not, it would be this: he woke to Goodnight dragging his fingertips along the wing of his shoulder blade. Autumn was giving way to winter, and so they would have to head south or find a place to hole up to wait it out. Billy had no preference, one way or the other, and was waiting for Goodnight to make up his mind.

“This flea is you and I, and this our marriage bed, and marriage temple,” Goodnight murmured as Billy stretched, reluctant to come all the way awake. “Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met, and cloistered in these living walls of jet.”

“More Shakespeare?” he asked.

“One day I will get you to recognize more than one poet,” Goodnight answered. “It’s Donne.”

“All Englishmen sound alike,” Billy said, and Goodnight nipped at his shoulder in reprimand.

“Though use make you apt to kill me,” Goodnight continued, “let not to that, self-murder added be, and sacrilege, three sins in killing three.”

“I think I like Shakespeare better,” Billy said, and rolled over. They would need to pack up their camp if they wanted to clear any distance that day.

Goodnight smiled at him, something unbearably tender in his gaze, and said, “Just so much honor, when thou yield’st to me, will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee.”

“Is this actually about a flea?” he asked, suspicious. Through Goodnight, he was getting quite an eclectic education in literature, most of which he did not care for.

“It’s a poem to his mistress,” Goodnight said. “He’s attempting to convince her to sleep with him.”

“By talking about a flea?”

“It’s a metaphor, Billy,” Goodnight said, laughing now. “What’s life without a bit of poetry in it?”

“Poetry isn’t going to win us any money or feed us, Goody.”

“Ah, but, darling,” said Goodnight, pressing his mouth to the underside of Billy’s jaw, “that’s why I have you.”

 

* * *

 

Goodnight would always walk with a limp, the doctor said, and his ribs would give him trouble, on and off, although they had healed as best as one could hope for. He needed a cane now, and vicious cramps would leave him immobile and gasping until Billy could coax the muscle into relaxing. Gone were the days of Goodnight’s easy grace when he would effortlessly balance himself on fences and railings.

But then Billy wasn’t unchanged either. The bullet tore up his shoulder, and his days of quick draw were behind him, though there were few that could best him when it came to knives. He and Goodnight would need to find a new line of work.

“Are you sure?” Billy asked, doing his best not to hover as Goodnight laboriously saddled his horse, a vicious mare that took a liking to him and no one else. “We can stay here.”

“We’ve been here all winter,” Goodnight answered. “We’ve just about outlived our welcome.”

A lie, but Billy had no intention of calling him on it. Emma Cullen had sheltered them through their long convalescence and was kind enough not to ask why Goodnight insisted every door be locked and barred, although Billy knew she had witnessed his sleepwalking more than once.

“You kept looking for me,” Goodnight had explained in the morning. “You thought I was dead.”

“It’s not a bad place to settle,” Billy said instead, and that at least gave Goodnight pause. “We have money, Goody, and they sell land cheap to white men.”

“Is that what you want?” Goodnight asked, turning to face him. He was still thin, even after a winter of being force fed by every woman in town. “You want to settle down?”

I want you safe, Billy did not say. I want to sleep without seeing you dying.

“We can’t go back to how we were,” he said.

“That is a fact,” Goodnight agreed. He winced when he tried to take a step forward, and so Billy went to him, as he always would. “But I think we have a few good miles left in us still.”

“The ground will not be as forgiving as Mrs. Cullen’s beds,” Billy warned, glancing back at the house before sliding one arm around Goodnight’s waist. A whole winter together, she must know, but she kept her peace and Billy was grateful for it.

“I’m tired of beds anyway,” Goodnight said. “And I'm tired of not having my hands on you.”

Billy sighed, but it was inevitable that he would follow Goodnight’s wishes. “What do you have planned?”

Goodnight smiled, still so sweet after all those years. “I never did take you to Louisiana, did I? I think it’s about time I showed you my home, if you’re willing to see it.”

“I should be, seeing all the words you spent on it,” said Billy, keeping the surprise from his voice as best he could. “And after that?”

“Well, the way I reckon it, Rose Creek will still be waiting for us, if you’re still of a mind to settle our old bones down.”

A quick glance showed they were remained alone, and so Billy cupped Goodnight’s cheek, gaunt but still so dear, and said, “I go wherever you go,” and kissed him quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Goody quotes is John Donne's "The Flea," which is indeed about Donne invoking a flea that has bitten both him and his mistress as a reason they should have sex. It's a very Goodnight poem, I feel.


End file.
